Though the Truth May Vary
by Ninazadzia
Summary: "This is wrong. This is so wrong. You're stripping Daryl Dixon. But to be entirely fair, he's also stripping me." Beth and Daryl play "I've Never" properly. T borderline M.


**A/N: This is T borderline M. Actually, it really should be M. But I'm rebellious like that.**

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**Though the Truth May Vary**

By Ninazadzia

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"I've never . . ." Beth pauses. She looks to the dusty bottle of whiskey in her hand. Half an hour ago, it'd been full. Now, only a few shots remain at the bottom.

She looks to Daryl. For some reason, resurrecting "I Never" had been his idea. "Found this at the market," he'd said, referencing a run they'd made last week. "Why don' we play that drinkin' game again?"

It'd all seemed a little sudden, given that he hadn't been too into "I Never" the first time around. But she could make an educated guess on why he wanted to an excuse to get drunk.

They'd found the sign. "Those who arrive, survive. Terminus."

It was the first sliver of hope they'd been given in weeks, so of course it was cause for celebration. She hadn't anticipated that said celebration would involve a bottle of whiskey, but she wasn't complaining.

At this point, her head is foggy and her words are slurring. She thinks back to when she watched her friends play, all of those months ago—of course, that was a completely different kind of "I've Never." The whole point of the game was to extract from your semi-coherent friends just how far they've advanced sexually. No, her and Daryl hadn't been playing by those rules at all.

It's not like Daryl knows the point of "I Never," anyway. But Beth does. And Beth knows why she's biting her tongue, not revealing her biggest (at least to date) "I've Never."

But then she decides, _fuck it. Might as well throw caution to the wind._ "I've never had sex."

She laughs, because it's the only way to break the silence in the room. Daryl's beyond wasted at this point, so she can't tell if the blood running to his face is from whiskey or her virginal confession. Probably a combination of both.

Still, he's coherent enough to raise the glass to his lips and take a drink.

"None of 'em boyfriends was good enough, huh?" he manages, throatily.

She shakes her head. "Wasn' that. Sex jus' freaked me out." She shrugs, and then laughs a bit more. _Dear Lord am I drunk. _"I mean, it doesn' anymore. But too late now, I guess."

He nods, slowly. He doesn't look up at her, and keeps his eyes trained on the bottle he's holding.

After a minute of silence, she goes, "At least tell me that I'm not missing much, or something like that."

He snorts. "I ain't gonna lie to ya."

She nods. "Right. Well, I hope there are some guys at this Terminus place." She takes another drink, just because she can. "It'd really suck to die a virgin."

Now he looks up. His expression morphs from genuine confusion to sudden realization. He glances her over once, twice, before shaking his head, and bursting into a fit of laughter.

"Greene, what the _hell _d'you think you're gittin' at?"

"Jus' bein' honest. And also—" she burps, and then waves her bottle in his direction—"we weren' even playin' the game right. The whole _point _is that it's supposed to sexual, for chrissakes."

"Don' give me that," he says. " 'Playin' the game right,'" he mocks, putting on a falsetto. "Tha's bullshit." He clears his throat, and then raises a finger and feebly points at her. "If that was your idea of a pass, then you'll have to do a little better than that, girl."

Her eyes widen. _A pass? _As in, a sexual advancement? She opens her mouth to say, "God, no, of course not," but shuts it. She racks her brain, and thinks it over.

_ Was it?_

Alcohol does unkind things to the teenage brain. It took her much, much longer than it should've to answer that question. But the more she mulled it over, and the more she looked to Daryl, the more her original answer wavered.

Daryl Dixon was no doubt rough around the edges, and he was definitely too old for her. But she'd be lying if she said that she didn't find him attractive.

_It's the zombie apocalypse. You could do much worse._

She glances him over, and before she can think too much about it, she grabs jacket collar. She pulls him in, and crushes her mouth against his. She tastes the whiskey on his breath, and it mingles with her own. Even in the midst of her drunkenness, she doesn't miss the unmistakable rush of adrenaline as it courses through her body.

She feels him fall into her. As he deepens the kiss and weaves his fingers through her hair, she pulls away, just slightly.

_"That _was my idea of a pass," she says.

Daryl pauses, and looks from her eyes to her lips. "Fuck," he goes. "What the fuck are we doin'?"

"I know what I'm doin.'"

"No you don'. You're drunk."

"Yeah, but I know that I want you," she slurs. His expression—which was already helpless—becomes something else entirely. But she doesn't stop talking. The alcohol won't let her. "An' you don' think I'm some child anymore, do you?"

He shakes his head, but she can see his resolve falter.

"Damn, Beth . . ."

"I don' want to die a virgin," she says, quietly.

"You're not gonna die."

"You don' know that." For some reason, a lump forms in her throat. She gulps it back. "Please, Daryl?"

A sober Daryl would press the argument. But she knows that a drunk Daryl (_this_ drunk Daryl) is still high off the possibility of _civilization._ He's not a dick, at least not like he was when they first drank together.

She keeps that in mind as she goes, "You wanted to celebrate, right?" She stands up ever so slightly, and shifts her weight so she's in his lap. She pulls at the fabric of her shirt, and lifts it over her head. He watches, breathlessly, as it falls to the ground. A shiver works its way up her bare back.

He glances to her barely clothed chest, and then back to her face.

Sober Daryl would say no. But drunk Daryl whispers, "Okay."

And then he kisses her. And, God, does she reciprocate. She moves her mouth against his hungrily, and fumbles for his jacket. She takes the leather by her hands and works it off. As he moves his hands against her body and as she continues to rip off his clothing, one thought emerges from the recesses of her mind.

_This is wrong. This is so wrong. You're stripping Daryl Dixon._

But to be entirely fair, he's also stripping her.

So she tucks away her thoughts of legalities and morning-after regrets and "you're too drunk for this" elsewhere, because the _other _thought that emerges is the one she wants to listen to. It's the thought that goes, _I want him. I want Daryl Dixon. And he wants me, even if it's only for right now._

Her heart races the entire time. It's awfully hot in that room, and they're awfully sloppy. Hell, it takes Beth a solid minute just to undo his belt buckle. And, God, it hurts like hell—just like her friends had once told her it would. But the alcohol dulls the pain, and just taking a glance at Daryl's face is enough to make it melt away entirely.

If only she'd known.

In the weeks to come, looking at his face would bring her nothing but pain.

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"_I don't like walking around this old and empty house_

_So hold my hand, I'll walk with you, my dear_

_The stairs creak as you sleep, it's keeping me awake_

_It's the house telling you to close your eyes_

_And some days I can't even dress myself_

_It's killing me to see you this way_

_'Cause though the truth may vary_

_This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore …"_

~**Little Talks** by **Of Monsters and Men**

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**A/N: Because Daryl and Beth simply weren't playing "I've Never" properly :D**

**Originally, I had plans to make this fic a three-or-four-shot with alternating scenes of Bethyl, Richonne, and then (ultimately) Dixonne. But I'm kind of digging the way it turned out. Let me know if you'd want me to continue this fic, or if you think I should leave it as is.**

**This story is entirely the fault of the Walking Dead writers. God bless you. You've turned a former crack!ship into something I'm gaga over.**

**Kk peace out girl scouts.**

**PS. REVIEW why don't you? ******eyebrow wiggle********


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